Sideways
by Mitzi Alton
Summary: So far, a self-contained Lizzington chapter picking up some time around the Season 2 fall finale, with a couple more chapters planned. My first crack at fanfic so interested to see what people think.


_Chapter One: Sideways_

Liz awoke to soft, unfamiliar cotton. Surfacing from the folds of an overstuffed down comforter, she struggled to open her eyes against the muted sunlight filtering into the strange yet homey room. Her hands found a bedside table and a moment later, an alarm clock. The digital readout brought her vision into focus, and with it, memories of last night. The hotel. Gunshots. The meet with Fourier, gone sideways. A hasty retreat through the kitchen where Red had lost her on their first operation together.

Red.

Sitting up, she swung her legs onto the cold floor. A wave of dizziness nearly brought her reeling back to the pillow, but she managed to hold herself upright and focus on taking deep drags of the air that was fresh and crisp even inside the house. While she collected herself, she surveyed her surroundings. The room was furnished cleanly and simply; teak night tables flanking the bed held modern, brushed chrome lamps. Several soft and faded throw rugs covered newly refinished hardwood floors, and a sturdy-looking rocking chair in the corner by the glass doors made the room look lived in rather than sterile. Liz could imagine someone passing pleasant hours in that chair, reading volumes from the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that ran the length of the far wall. Outside, trees dotted a green lawn that sloped down to water—probably a lake—glittering through the leaves.

Liz pulled back the birch pocket door separating her room from the next and stepped out into a living room that flowed into an open, modern kitchen. More sliding glass doors—an entire wall of them—looked out onto the lake.

Red was standing at the counter, meting out coffee grounds into a French press. Liz was surprised to see he wasn't wearing one of his always impeccably tailored suits, but only gray sweat pants and a white undershirt. A gauze bandage circled his left bicep, a rust-colored streak of blood staining it like the drunken indiscretion of a tribal tattoo.

"You better change that, or it will get infected. "

"I'm sorry Lizzie, I didn't grind the beans fresh because I didn't want to wake you. I'm afraid we'll have to make do with some Italian roast from the freezer."

"Does Cooper know where we are?"

"No, just Dembe. They know we made it out, but I thought it best not to leave any tracks until we know who double crossed us."

"I should call it in."

"Call what in? As far as the Canadian authorities are concerned, the incident was the unfortunate outcome of two rival cartels taking their grievances public, and I think the Bureau would like to keep it that way. Fourier is dead and the trail is cold, at least for now. So I suggest our best course of action is to enjoy a cup of coffee in these lovely surroundings and wait for Dembe to return with the bagels."

Five minutes later, with Liz's teeth brushed, face washed, and the slip she had been wearing under her cocktail dress the night before traded for voluminous cotton bathrobe Red said with apologies would be the only suitable thing hanging in the closet, they were seated on a deck overlooking the lawn holding steaming mugs of black coffee.

"Where are we?" Liz asked.

"Safe, first of all. The nearest town is a haven for wealthy Manhattanites, and as far as anyone is concerned, this place is an investment property owned by an anesthesiologist who comes up here to shoot turkeys once a year."

"Upstate New York?"

"I find it to be a more than adequate locale for going completely unnoticed." Turning more serious, Red continued, "Lizzie, whoever interrupted our little rendezvous last night knows me too well. You know I try not to be a man of habits, and returning to the Marquis hotel was a mistake, one that my enemy was able to exploit. So we find ourselves here while the jet makes a few unscheduled appearances far away from you. Ah, Dembe—were you able to find my everything?"

"They were out." Dembe had appeared at the screen door holding a brown paper bag.

"Plain it is then. Lizzie, what kind of bagel will you take? No let me guess—you're a sesame, aren't you."

Back in the kitchen they munched on bagels and chive cream cheese while Dembe made arrangements with the pilot to meet them at an airport about an hour and a half away, where Red's jet would be less conspicuous than at the regional airport nearby. It was now late in the morning but the sky had darkened considerably, and the wind was whipping up frothy white caps on the steely gray lake below.

"We'll have to wait." Dembe had hung up and was addressing Red. "The storm has already hit the county south of here and there's flash flooding on the highway. The system isn't supposed to finish moving through until late tonight."

"Dembe, you and I have faced worse hardships than a little rain, and I have to return Agent Keen to the feds, not to mention some proper clothes. Though Lizzie, I wouldn't mind if you had to wear that little number you had on last night again."

Lizzie scowled and pulled the cotton robe tighter around her chest. "I'll need something for Cooper. He won't be pleased after last night's little adventure."

"That may be, but I'm afraid returning tonight is out of the question. Downed trees and power lines can cut off escape routes and leave us exposed to being spotted." Again Dembe turned to Red: "Red, I do not recommend it."

"Very well. I think I may have something to entertain dear Harold until I can restore his Agent Keen to him. We need to find out who ordered the hit on Fourier, and a blacklister's help can get us there: Evan Touree. In Montreal they call him L'Agent. He's a gatekeeper for contract killers; if you want to do business in the city, you go through him. If whoever carried out the hit is one of his, he'll know. If not, he'll find out who did, and have his head."

"I'll call it in."

The call with Cooper did not go well. He had taken some convincing that Touree was not just a small fish, and even once he was on board, he was furious that Liz had gone dark with Red rather than making her way back to the Bureau for debriefing. Red had taken a glancing hit to the arm as they fled for the kitchen. Dembe had been waiting in the alley for them; Liz had assumed they would head for the airport, and was so intent on dressing Red's arm they were already crossing the border before she realized the airport, and consequently the Bureau's backup, were miles behind them.

Truth be told nothing had gone the way it was supposed to. It was supposed to be a simple information drop; they chose a crowded restaurant precisely to avoid the kind of violence that had transpired. Fourier was not even supposed to make direct contact. The plan had been to use the coat check again. But Fourier was not to be trusted, and apparently felt the same about Red. He was waiting for them when they got there, in a half-enclosed both against the wall; the hostess clearly had instructions to bring Liz and Red to him. Liz was seated between the two men, a fact that gave Red intense displeasure, but not as intense as the displeasure he had leaving her exposed to the room, over which he no longer felt he had control.

Fourier was in no hurry to divulge information, instead preferring to lean in ever closer to Liz in an attempt to engage her in heavily accented conversation. She could practically feel the prickles of Red's displeasure as he bristled in his seat next to her, and she had a hard time convincing herself it was just part of their cover when his right hand went from playing with a lock of hair on the nape of her neck to lightly tracing a line down her back, coming to rest in the small of her waist and drawing her to him so their legs were touching. When Fourier leaned forward to grasp her hand on the table, Red's left hand actually reached across his lap to linger on the handgun that was strapped to her inner thigh just slightly above the hem of her short silk chiffon cocktail dress. That had been just moments before the shooting started and Fourier had slumped forward onto the table, giving them just a split second of cover to dive from the booth and make a dash to the kitchen, but not before a shot had grazed Red in the arm.

"Dembe, change of plans." Red's voice brought Liz back to the present. "We'll be staying up north to make contact with Touree ourselves. Arrange a meet tomorrow, Ile des Soeurs."


End file.
